And Bynum Hardy’s cabin really was the end of the trail that led to it. “Broad as the trail was beat, I reckoned there was more cabins ‘n the one along hit,” Old Nathan muttered.
Gold had beaten the trail. Need for money had brought folk to Bynum Hardy’s door, even back here in a hollow too steep-sided to be cleared while there was better land still to be had. A cheap tract, where a cheap man could settle and sow the crop he knew, gold instead of corn.
And when the loans sprouted, they brought folk back a dozen times more. People bent with the effort of raising the payments until they broke—and Bynum Hardy took their land and changed it in good time to more gold.
“You’ll feed me now, I reckon,” the mule said at the door of the cabin.
Much of the clay chinking had dropped out from between the logs. It lay as a reddish smear at the base of the walls. The cabin was still solid, but it had deteriorated badly since the day it was built for want of care.
Old Nathan looked upward. The sky was visibly darker than it had been when he met Bascom Hardy. “I figger,” he said, “I’ll get a fire going whilst there’s daylight. Like as not I’ll need t’ cut wood, and I only packed a hand-axe along.”
“Reckon you’ll feed me now,” the mule repeated. “Thur’s no stable hereabouts, and I don’t guess yer fool enough to think the reins ‘ll hold me ifen I’m hungry.”
The cunning man leaned his rifle against the wall, then turned to uncinch the saddle. Most of the load in the saddlebags was grain and fodder for the mule. He hadn’t expected to find pasture around the dead miser’s cabin. . . .
“You’re nigh as stubborn as a man, ye know thet?” he said to the mule.
The beast snorted with pleasure at the flattery. “What is it ye need t’ do here?” it asked.
Old Nathan lifted off the saddle with the bags still attached to it. “Set till somebody comes by,” he said. “Listen t’ what they say.”
The mule snorted again. “Easy ’nuff work,” it said. “Beats draggin’ a plow all holler.”
“Easy enough t’ say,” Old Nathan said grimly as he unbuckled one of the bags. “How easy hit is t’ do, thet we’ll know come morning.”
There were no clouds in the sky, but the blue had already richened to deep indigo.
* * *
The soil round about the cabin had been dug up like a potato field, and the fireplace within was in worse shape yet. All the stones of the hearth had been levered out of their mud grouting and cast into a corner.
Somebody since, Gray Jack or the witchwoman Mamie Fergusson, had set a fire on the torn clay beneath the flue. Recently cut wood lay near the fireplace where the bodyguard tumbled it the day he watched and waited—for Bynum Hardy, though he didn’t know that at the time.
Old Nathan got to work promptly, notching feathers from the edge of a split log with his hand-axe. He made a fireset of punk and dry leaves to catch the sparks he struck from a fire steel with a spare rifle flint, then fed the tiny flames with a blob of pine pitch before adding the wood. When that log had well and truly caught, he added others with care.
The process was barely complete before the hollow’s early dark covered the cabin. The cunning man stepped back, breathing through nostrils flared by the mental strain of his race with the light. There were other ways Old Nathan could have ignited a fire . . . but though some of those ways looked as easy as a snap of the fingers, they had hidden costs. It was better to struggle long in the dark with flint and steel than to use those other ways.
The orange flames illuminated but did not brighten the interior of the cabin. The single room was bleak and as dank as a cave. The furnishings were slight and broken down—but most likely as good as they had been while Bynum Hardy lived in this fortified hovel. There was a flimsy table and a sawn section of tree bole, a foot in diameter, to act as a stool.